


Shot to the Neck and You're Too Late

by BrownHairedDork



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Major Character Injury, October Prompt Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 09:30:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrownHairedDork/pseuds/BrownHairedDork
Summary: Third entry for this prompt challenge. Wash is the next victim for a 'short' little fic that touches base on Wash's latest injury. YesI cried while writing this. It's more angst than scary w h o o p s.





	Shot to the Neck and You're Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> Third entry for this prompt challenge. Wash is the next victim for a 'short' little fic that touches base on Wash's latest injury. YesI cried while writing this. It's more angst than scary w h o o p s.

How many times has he been hurt before? He couldn't keep track and God knows he could count all on his fingers and toes about the multiple incidences that brought him pain. Psychological and physical. Scars were multiple reminders, scattered all over his body like multiple constellations of stars. Milky ways and big dippers were the color of silver and pale pink on his pale body. Thanks to constantly being in his armor, that once healthy, lightly tanned skin he had in Freelancer was a long gone memory.  
Scars couldn't equally match up to what Epsilon had done to his mind long ago as well. _God,_ he could still hear Allison's voice in his head over and over again. Her laughing at the Director's awkward conversations he would have with her. Flashes of the Director's life would float behind his closed eyelids at night, keeping him up till dawn. Sunlight would chase his nightmares away until night would come by once more.

Injuries could be healed over time, only leaving behind the fucked up memories in the form of a never-ending nightmare. Constant anxiety had driven him nearly mad enough to right his wrongs and kill innocent soldiers. Apologizing for more than once to Donut and Lopez, and living with the guilt of shooting his current friends, had banged around in the back of his head like a hornet's nest. Pain could be slowly forgotten but new injuries had always re-occurred every now and then.

This injury was nothing but another addition to his long checklist of wounds. His ears were ringing loudly, and the urge to breathe was difficult. Blood was pouring out of his mouth like a waterfall, his hands were shaking terribly. They were both clinging to his neck, his gloves were soaking in his own blood. Scrambling to stop the blood flow that was staining his dark grey and bright yellow armor. His words gurgle behind the blood that filled his mouth. _'Help'_ he wanted to scream. _'What the fuck happened to me.'_

His eyes barely could keep up with the blurry outlines of people that swam before his strewn out body. Two blobs of aqua and a few shades of red were crouched over him. Then a large hulking form had gently shoved the two aqua blobs to the side. He was carried in large arms, dark army green had caused his head to hurt. Wash was going to drown in his helmet from the amount of blood that was escaping his body. Voices caused a huge migraine to overtake his body, and cause him to shake in his carrier's arms.

"Get him to Grey. He can't die." A male voice spoke up. His pale blue eyes were trying to find who was talking, but with how fast he was being carried. Tucker? Yeah, that's his buddy, his pal.

"He can't die. He _won't_ die!" A somewhat hysterical female voice has answered the male's voice without a beat of silence could occur. Now that was Carolina. She sounded so _scared_ to him.

 _Death_. What a scary thing to think. What a silly thing to think. As much as he was jostled around while being practically sprinted to an alien ship and skyrocketed to a med-bay was tiring to go through. Being shot in the throat reminded him of Maine. The poor old ex-freelancer was really misunderstood, especially when it came to his lack of communication skills. How Wash could understand him best was a shock beyond all thought. Maybe he was going to become some big growling _monster,_ just like the Meta. He could picture it now, he'd respond to Meta 2.0 now. The name Wash would be another lonely memory.

The event from leaving _'Temple's evil lair'_ and flying to Dr.Grey on Chorus was a hazy blur. The only thing Wash could remember was waking up in a brightly lit hospital room. The fluorescent lights made a somewhat pained noise try to leave his cracked lips. Both of his hands were strapped down to the bed he was laying upon. With a growl that seemed to sound like a mewl to his own ears, his head laid back in the stiff pillow. He must have been holding or clawing at his throat. He could tell since his hands were covered in dried dark blood. Blood was caked under his once, cleanly trimmed nails. Swallowing as gentle as he could, he heard the automatic doors swish open. A blur of aqua had caught his eye and the sight of his teammate had set his heart at ease, even the organ has lowered to his stomach slowly. Even with his helmet on, Wash could tell Tucker looked like shit. He walked slower than usual and his posture was slumped, his hands were slightly shaking.

"Hey man," Tucker spoke quietly. It sounded so loud to Wash's ears and so loud in the starkly white room.

Blinking in acknowledgment, Wash had opened his mouth to talk, but given how he tried last time it was best to stay as quiet as possible.

"You look like _shit_." Tucker had stated what was exactly on Wash's mind. Dull thumps had signaled that he was getting closer to Wash's side. Then another thump, the aqua soldier's ass was now seated in the seat close to the hospital bed.

It was a tense silence that passed between the two, especially since one of them couldn't talk except for growl horribly. Speaking of which a growl had escaped Wash; catching the other male's attention and having his deep colored eyes to land on the injured male.

"Shut up. Don't talk, you need to not injure your throat anymore." Tucker stated firmly. Way too firm for a man whose personality was all about making sex jokes and working hard to become a womanizer. War and countless sleepless nights had changed him even if he tried hard to act like his old self.

A minute had passed, a minute that felt like an hour of silence that was only filled by the slight hum of an IV drip pumping the strongest morphine into Wash's veins. Pale blue, tired eyes were locked as best as they could on Tucker's frame. How long were they going to look at each other and not converse about Wash's incident? It was mentally scarring to everyone. How clean that bullet went straight through his neck and how much _blood_ had poured out. How Wash had gurgled Tucker's name when he first made eye contact, or somewhat eye contact, with Tucker. The thing was, Wash didn't remember being shot and the events after that. He was just curious about how he got injured. In Wash's mind, he just thought he has just hurt a long time ago. He nor Tucker would know about the countless minutes' Wash's brain had gone without oxygen. He'd have his moments of being all too playful and then switch off like a light when his brain would short circuit.

He'd be treated all too gently by Carolina and left in a constant state of wonderment on why some people were acting differently to him. He'd ask questions and they'd be brushed off or pointedly ignored to the point of Washington nearly snapping like a rubber band of irritation. He wouldn't know about the moment of betrayal he would feel, stabbing at his heart like a thousand degree knife to his heart from the important information of his current medical condition. Betrayal gave by his only close friend who he's known for years on end, _Carolina._ Washington wouldn't know a lot of things but right now, in that quiet medical room with Tucker slowly telling Wash about how Locus found Grif all alone in their _'vacation planet_ ' talking to volleyballs that had all of their faces painted on them. Grif was playing off some ratchet _Castaway_ scene.

He'd only deal with the questions and slight anxiety as he lived in a time period of questions and innocent wonder; while time travel and insane chaos worked around him.

 


End file.
